The Unlikely Spy by Sarah Woodbury Page B

murdered.”
    Morgan didn’t even blink. “How?”
    “A stab to the chest,” Hywel said. “All the
more reason to wonder at my uncle’s interest in it.”
    “Do you believe his assertion that he wasn’t
involved?”
    “It is not what I believe or don’t believe
at present. I have no reason to suspect him other than that I
always suspect him. But no, Gryff’s death seems far below the
doings of my uncle.”
    Morgan gazed past Hywel, looking towards the
entrance to the great hall. “He brought many men, your uncle. Did
you know?”
    Hywel’s eyes narrowed. “How many?”
    “Twenty came with him to the castle, but I
have been informed that he left some fifty more outside
Aberystwyth.”
    “What?” Hywel said. “Fifty cavalry?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can you tell me where exactly?” Hywel
said.
    “In the woods about two miles to the
northeast of St. Padarn’s,” Morgan said. “I only learned of this
moments ago when one of the farm boys came in and spoke of it. He
was riding in the back of his father’s hay cart when he saw them
setting up camp near St. Dafydd’s chapel.”
    Hywel was aghast at the news. “Your network
of spies appears to be better than mine.”
    “I’m sorry, my lord, I—”
    Hywel waved a hand. “Please know that I am
in no way angry about that. I’m impressed and grateful.”
    “I’m a Ceredigion man, born and bred,”
Morgan said. “I regret to say that the men of Gwynedd remain
newcomers and are often ill-trusted.”
    “For good reason,” Hywel said, “thanks to my
uncle.”
    “You are not painted with the same brush,”
Morgan said.
    Hywel almost laughed. He had tried to be
fair, ruling with a firm but just hand. But when a man didn’t get
what he wanted, or was punished, it often didn’t matter to him or
his family that his sentence had been just.
    “You are vulnerable, however,” Morgan said.
“It isn’t that the people are tinder, just waiting to be lit, but
they distrust. King Cadell of Deheubarth should arrive at any
moment and those two—Cadell and Cadwaladr—are as the two faces of a
coin. Both want to rule Ceredigion, and neither is to be
trusted.”
    Hywel already knew that, but it was good to
hear Morgan articulate it. “Again, thank you. Please let me or
Gareth know if you see or hear anything more about these men of my
uncle’s or have further thoughts on the matter.”
    Morgan bowed. “Of course, my lord.”
    Hywel headed for his horse, which had been
fed and watered in his absence, and found Evan, Gareth’s
second-in-command, holding his bridle.
    “Do you have orders for me, my lord?” he
said.
    “Yes, I do.” Hywel would have sent Gareth to
investigate if he were not inconveniently busy with the murder.
Evan would do in his stead. Hywel mounted his horse and turned its
head. His uncle might not be involved in this murder, but as surely
as the sun would rise tomorrow, he was involved in something.

Chapter Eight
    Gareth
     
    I t was different
having Prince Rhun for company instead of Hywel. Gareth didn’t
dislike his presence. It was simply new to him, and like any new
thing, it would take some getting used to. Prince Rhun was closer
to Gareth’s age than Hywel was and, quite honestly, probably closer
in natural temperament to Gareth, too.
    As they strode across the monastery
courtyard to the stables, Rhun glanced at Gareth. “Is something the
matter?”
    “Not at all.” Gareth hastily rearranged his
expression, smoothing his furrowed brow. “I was merely thinking
about the murder, and what we might discover when we speak to
Iolo.”
    “Have you encountered a cloth merchant by
that name before, here in Ceredigion?” Rhun said.
    “No. Not that I remember. He must have come
for the festival. Madlen implied as much.” They entered the
darkness of the stable where their horses were being kept. Two boys
came out of the depths of the stalls to greet them, but Gareth
didn’t need a guide to find his horse. Braith whickered at his
approach,